“It is, as you say, perplexing,” Poirot agreed. “Mr. Bobak, perhaps you could tell us what happened when you took the evening-afternoon-tea to Ida Gransbury’s room.”

“I set it out on the table and then I left them to it, sir.”

“They were all three in the room? Mrs. Sippel, Miss Gransbury and Mr. Negus?”

“They were, yes, sir.”

“Describe to us the scene.”

“The scene, sir?”

Seeing that Rafal Bobak was at a loss, I chipped in with: “Which one of them opened the door?”

“Mr. Negus opened the door, sir.”

“And where were the two women?” I asked.

“Oh, they were sitting in the two chairs over by the fireplace. Talking to each other. I had no dealings with them. I spoke only to Mr. Negus. Laid everything out on the table by the window, and then I left, sir.”

“Can you recall what the two ladies talked about?” asked Poirot.

Bobak lowered his eyes. “Well, sir . . .”

“It is important, monsieur. Every detail that you can tell me about these three people is important.”

“Well . . . they were being a bit catty, sir. Laughing about it, too.”

“You mean they were being spiteful? How so?”

“One of them was, yes. And Mr. Negus, he seemed to find it entertaining. It was something about an older woman and a younger man. It wasn’t my business so I didn’t listen.”

“Do you remember what precisely was said? At whom was the cattishness directed?”

“I couldn’t tell you, sir, I’m sorry. An old woman that might be pining for the love of a young man, that was the sense I got. It sounded like gossip to me.”

“Monsieur,” said Poirot in his most authoritative voice. “If you should happen to remember anything else about this conversation, anything at all, please inform me without delay.”

“I shall, sir. Now that I think about it, the young man might have deserted the older woman and eloped with another woman. Idle gossip, that’s all it was.”

“So . . .” Poirot started to pace the length of the room. It was strange to see more than a hundred heads turn slowly, then turn back as he retraced his steps. “We have Richard Negus, Harriet Sippel and Ida Gransbury—one man and two women—in Room 317, talking cattily about one man and two women!”

“But what’s the significance of that, Poirot?” I asked.

“It might not be significant. It is interesting, however. And the idle gossip, the laughter, the afternoon tea for dinner . . . This tells us that our three murder victims were not strangers but acquaintances on friendly terms, unaware of the fate that would shortly befall them.”

A sudden movement startled me. At the table immediately in front of where Poirot and I were standing, a black-haired, pale-faced young man had bounced out of his seat as if propelled from underneath. I would have assumed he was eager to say something were it not for the terror-frozen expression on his face.